The Matron's Favoured Son
by WareTheVenom
Summary: Four years after the war against the Valsharess, a plea for aid draws Mae'rillar Kilath back to the Underdark. As he endeavours to help those he loves, Mae'rillar recalls his former life as the eldest son of Matron Kilath, what it was that led to her waging war as the Valsharess, and why he turned away from her and their goddess Lolth in favour of the Seer and Eilistraee.
1. A Day in Skullport

**Hello and welcome - I hope you like my new story. If you do (or you think I could do better) please review! ;)**

**For those of you who've come across my other NwN fic, Dancing with Shadows, Mae'rillar will be a little familiar thanks to his prolonged cameo therein, but the two stories are really rather different and not really connected (after all, this is HotU and that was NwN2...)**  
**This story features a 'frame narrative', with the 'frame' being the later time period, the 'Year of Risen Elfkin', and the events of Hordes of the Underdark are those in the 'Year of the Unstrung Harp'. There will be a reminder at the beginning of each chapter, and any change of year will be noted accordingly.**

**1371, the Year of the Unstrung Harp = Hordes of the Underdark events**  
**1375, the Year of Risen Elfkin = 'the present', ie the frame narrative for this story, which also occurs after NwN2, for those who were curious :P**

* * *

_1375 DR, __**Year of Risen Elfkin**__, Alturiak 'The Claw of Winter'_

Years had passed since Mae'rillar had been to Skullport, and he could hardly admit to missing the place. It was reviled as a well of evil by the folk of Waterdeep, the mighty surface city hundreds of feet above, and not without good cause. Skullport was full of nefarious intent; that was for certain. Its inhabitants were populated by a villainous majority, heralding from both the surface world – Faerûn – and the Underdark, but everyone in this place had more than ill-intent in common.

Everyone who lived in Skullport had something to hide, or someone to hide from – probably both. Escaped Drow slaves – Orcs and humans, mostly – who had never seen the sun, raised entirely in the Underdark cities of Menzoberranzan, Ched Nasad and the like were a common sight. With nowhere to go in the surface world they found work where they could or begged on the filthy, dimly lit streets. Theft, brawling and murder were hardly rare here, and the executions were regular affairs. The burly Orc militia, serving under a set of suspiciously ancient ruling wizards, were cruel and corrupt, and Mae'rillar knew to stay out of their way. He no longer had a House to protect him.

Among the other denizens of Skullport, wizards of dubious origins were hardly rare, setting up alchemical or divinatory establishments to prey on the needs of others…or even necromantic practises, to prey on the gullibility of those who were less fortunate than they. These were Red Wizards of Thay or Zhentarim who had made too many enemies in their infamous homelands, or possibly scholars of the more sinister arts of wizardry from the goodly realms which could not stomach such things. Magic was an integral part of Skullport, and as such the city was a natural haven for the less reputable classes of wizard. After all, this place had been founded by exiled Netherese mages. The ghostly green skulls their warding magic had left behind had also left the city with its name –as well as the good fortune to be well protected against the magical searching of any would-be pursuers of those who hid within.

Skullport stood in the lowest reaches of the complex known as Undermountain, a complex owned and controlled, with the exception of the city, by its insane creator, the archmage Halaster Greycloak, and it was with him that those centuries-dead wizards had bargained to found the city. Mae'rillar shuddered at the memory of his brief excursions into the upper parts of Undermountain. An underground labyrinth built with the express purpose of challenging adventurers who hoped to gain fame and wealth from surviving its many tests and fearsome, monstrous guardians, it was inherently a place for bad memories. He had survived, of course, but then again he had also been born into a dangerously ambitious lower house of Menzoberranzan and brought up under the vicious and singularly heartless society of the Drow.

Luckily, flitting through its narrow witchlight-lit streets with silent purpose, Mae'rillar did not need Skullport to be a place of goodness, nor did he need to it to be welcoming. All he needed was to meet his contact, and maybe a bed for the night and some longed for Drow wine. He had already witnessed a handful of his own kind on his path through Skullport, but each of them had been alone and without any house insignias. They were clearly renegades like him, and they averted their eyes from his and slipped away into the shadows when he saw them. Such lost souls, cruel and untrustworthy as he had to assume that they were, could not be expected foes, as bad as the memories they triggered inevitably were.

Nearing his destination, Mae'rillar had been forced to cross through the vast market square close to the docks. By the time he left the press of the streets, as the bells tolled that it was the beginning of the third quarter of a Skullport day, he realised he had likely witnessed almost every race common to Faerûn and just as many of the Underdark.

Gnolls sold stinking, lice-infested animal skins on the roadside, necromancers ferried carts of dead bodies over the cobbles, Orcs brawled outside taverns or tried to sell wares in the markets while Underdark-paled humans, ragged Gnomes and Halflings begged for food or flitted through the crowds, lifting purses and disappearing into the gloom. Sprites, faeries, even imps and mephits, whizzed in the still, cool air above the heads of those travelling the streets, stealing out of cruel enjoyment or hurrying past on errands for their masters. At one point, not far from the establishment he sought, Mae'rillar had even espied a red-robed wizard leading a Pit Fiend onto a heavily warded barge, probably bound for some distant holdfast of malignant power. An ogre-sized devil wreathed in flame and chained with fearsomely strong magic, it had turned his thoughts back to certain unwanted, wrathful memories, of an eon of cold and constant fear. _Cania, the Eighth – you will never forget._

At last the seasoned Drow warrior had reached his goal, tired of the stink and bustle of the city, and pushed through a heavy, groaning wooden door into a Goddess-blessedly dark tavern hall. The bartender, an impressively-tusked burly half-Orc, gave a grunt his way and gestured brusquely to an empty table. Ignoring the unfriendly glares of a trio of drunken Duergar by the bar, Mae'rillar ducked into his allocated seat and sat back, his arms resting with deceptive relaxation along the arms of his chair. Just a flick of his wrists and his longswords would be in his hands.

While the bartender ambled towards him, the Drow warrior surveyed the scene; five large, porcine-faced Orcs hunched around a table across the room playing a game of dice…and gods knew what the stakes might be. The Duergar were still staring at him, and he smirked at them. They were armed with poorly forged weaponry and even worse chainmail, not to mention the fog of strong drink, and were no threat to him – even if they did not realise it yet. He could hardly blame them for their hatred, even if he had no pity left in his heart for them; they were probably escaped Drow slaves. His Dark Elf kindred had a particular shared hatred with Duergar, the Grey Dwarves, and he represented uncountable horrors for them, Drow as he was.

A group of Halflings and Deep Gnomes, almost certainly a part of the city's extensive Thieves' Guild, sat around a number of other tables, drinking and eating prodigiously. Though they looked harmless enough, he knew to watch his purse and his backpack. And he did not doubt their meeting was one for scheming, not just for gorging themselves.

He had already observed as he stepped into his chair that a hooded creature sat in the corner nearby, enveloped in a deep-hooded velvet cloak, and the flicker of purplish tentacles from within that cowl told him all he needed to know; that patron was an Illithid, a 'Mind-Flayer', and he knew well to be on his guard. Such monsters were often egotistical and intellectually vain, as well as cruel and calculating…but their self-confidence was oft well placed. He would need to be careful once his contact arrived. He hoped she would be as glad to see him as he would be to see her. He had missed her ready laugh and dark, knowing eyes.

Placing his order for a bed to stay just one night, as well as for the best soup the inn provided and a glass of that Drow wine he had not tasted in too long, Mae'rillar's gaze shifted to the old, barred up door that stood so out of place at the foot of the stairs. He remembered all too well what lay that way, though in those years passed when he had been to the yard beyond the door he had known nothing of this inn. Sighing, he let his thoughts drift back to another time he had needed to spend a day and night in Skullport.

* * *

_1371 DR, __**Year of the Unstrung Harp**__, Eleasis 'Highsun'_

Matron Kilath had always liked to remind the young Mae'rillar that Skullport was to the Underdark what Sigil was to the Planescape; a place to link all others, and a hub of information. It did not need to be pleasant or even particularly bearable; as all things must for the Drow it would _serve_. Still, this latest mission to Skullport had an air of mystery that was particularly distasteful. Whenever Mae'rillar had been sent by his mother to this place in the past it had always been under the leadership of one of his sisters.

Now, Kirthel waited at a camp hidden in a narrow passageway just across the water from the city and _he_ had been sent as leader of a mistrustful group of other male Drow. Ordinarily he would have been more than relieved to be free of his youngest sister's penchant for ready brutality, but could not understand his mother's thinking. He could not help but suspect that there was something awry. Ordinarily there was only one reason why Matron Kilath would send him in the stead of his sister, and that was because he was male and in the eyes of a Lolth-worshipping priestess such as his mother he was far more expendable than one of his devout sisters.

With the perpetual blue radiance of the witchlights along the streets burning his eyes and a group of hooded, cloaked and armoured Drow soldiers at his back, Mae'rillar was decidedly uneasy, especially here in Skullport. Give him the darkness of his homeland, the Underdark, and its endlessly twisting tunnels, and he would have – ironically, perhaps – felt far safer. It did not help that Matron Kilath's orders had been simultaneously painfully specific and pointedly vague. He was to meet a certain man in an abandoned yard by the docks when the bells tolled the third quarter of a Skullport day. She had told him little else, except that he was to hand over a heavy purse of gems and gold for…an item.

It irked the young Drow warrior that his mother had failed to inform him of what it was he would be collecting, but her expression had been typically hard when she had recognised his curiosity. With the threat of that snake-headed whip she carried ever by her side, he had been forced simply to bow his head and do as commanded. It irked him even more that his younger sister Kirthel, waiting at camp across the water, had given him a particularly gloating look as she had sent him off. He longed to see that self-satisfied smirk wiped from her pinched face.

"Here," the Orc guide grunted as the group of cloaked Drow rounded a corner to face a large iron door set in a mouldy mud-and-brick wall. The rancid porcine creature reached out a grey, tough-skinned hand and Mae'rillar pressed a few coppers into its hairy palm, careful that his own leather clad digits did not come into contact with its lice-ridden skin.

The Drow warrior was already moving for the door when he heard his comrades sniggering. He turned in time to see one of the younger males threatening the Orc with the glimmering blade of his longsword. Mae'rillar shot him a hard look, gesturing for the door as his comrade loosed in his grip on the guide, allowing him to dart away into the labyrinthine backstreets.

"_A waste of copper, if you ask me," _the reckless soldier complained, using the silent signing language of the Drow, a method of communication based around complex hand signals and facial expressions devised especially for such clandestine manoeuvers, "_Better to cut its throat and be done with it. The slave was impudent to demand payment from Drow."_

_ "He is no slave here," _Mae'rillar reminded, setting his expression as he signed to best show his irritation, "_His absence may have been missed. We come here cloaked and hooded for a reason."_

_"All the better to deal with it properly. None would have known it was a group of Drow who passed this way…"_

_ "No. Your actions would betray your nature. Our 'disguise' merely buys us time to acquire what we need and return to camp."_

_ "…Commander," _the soldier acquiesced, nodding his head in a show of deference, but his pause and the murderous look in his red eyes showed a different mind-set. It suggested that Mae'rillar watch his back…as if he had not been doing so already.

For his part, the senior Drow just sneered and pointedly turned about, checking the door before him for traps before stepping through. Mae'rillar had bested every one of those who followed him a hundred times or more in training, and they knew better than to turn on him over an Orc. He may have been Matron Kilath's child, but he was also a male, and as such no amount of good standing would ever come to him automatically. He had earned his place here.

Still, he could fairly sense the silent scheming signals going on behind his back as they followed him into a foul-smelling yard full of barrels of rotting fish and surface-world vegetables. Across the ground a boat bobbed gently as if just moored in the narrow channel of water which had once no doubt been used to supply the shop whose back door now stood rusted shut.

"You come on behalf of Matron Kilath," a deep, flat voice intoned, and as one the group of Drow bristled, unsheathing swords and cocking miniature crossbows all in eerie silence unique to their stealthy race.

His own twin longswords already firmly in his hands, Mae'rillar looked about himself anxiously for a moment before his eyes settled upon the cloak-shrouded figure standing by the barrels a few strides away from the boat. He had to admit that it unsettled him to be taken so unawares; the yard was dark without any of those wretched witchlights, and it had only taken his eyes a second or two to adjust. Infravision was the favoured sight of the darkness-dwelling Drow; he should have been able to see his addressor immediately.

"We do," Mae'rillar replied at last, sheathing his blades and approaching cautiously until the cloaked figure before him held out one gloved hand. The gesture irritated him, and he pulled up short, glaring at the dark void within the unknown creature's hood, "You will receive no payment until I see what it is that I am to take in return," he denied, and when the figure before him shifted in response, he caught the briefest glimpse of a pair of leathery wings beneath the black cloak.

"This is the item your Matron requires," the creature told him, still as toneless as before, unconcernedly handing over a small golden medallion.

The bauble settled heavily in Mae'rillar's palm, fizzing with some unknown enchantment and stamped with an obscure ruby-dusted symbol. Staring at it, with his other hand closing around the bag of gold at his belt, it crossed Mae'rillar's mind that he could simply escape with the treasure and the medallion. His mother would never need to know that he had failed to pay the creature before him. A glance back around at his companions would have told him that they were thinking similar thoughts…but this winged figure before him was clearly no ordinary man. Mae'rillar had sensed strong magic at work since first he stepped into this reeking, boarded up yard.

With a sigh, the Drow warrior unhooked the gem bag from his belt and extended it towards the creature. Unexpectedly, the winged figure's hand closed around his wrist instead of the bag, lightning fast and strong as a vice, and a long, serrated knife materialised in his other hand. Cursing, Mae'rillar attempted to pull back, fumbling with the medallion in an attempt to unsheathe his sword, only to realise that the enchanted trinket would not budge from his palm no matter how hard he shook it. In these precious moments he head the whizz of miniature crossbow bolts and saw them bounce back from his attacker as if from a stone wall. He heard the soft ring of steel behind him, but no one moved to his aid.

"What is this treachery?" he demanded, not sure if he was speaking to his comrades or his aggressor, giving himself a moment to stall the creature so that he might right himself and lash out with a fist or boot. But his amber eyes were met with darkness, and in that void there dwelled some unknown magic which drifted into his sight and held him frozen, powerless as the figure pushed back Mae'rillar's sleeve.

"It is not gold that I require, but something of the flesh. I bear you no ill will, Mae'rillar Kilath, and you may thank me in time."

That hardly seemed likely as the serrated blade cut into his ebon-skinned forearm and he was powerless even to scream as he watched the creature before him pull free a chunk of his skin, blood welling up in a hot rush while his 'allies' turned and fled behind him. At that moment of betrayal his attacker dipped his head, breaking the spell of physical control, and Mae'rillar at last cried out, automatically reaching for the long, curved handle of the knife in the creature's hand even with the medallion still clinging to his own palm.

As soon as his fingertips touched the bone hilt, there followed a crackling burst of magic and the ground shifted beneath Mae'rillar's feet, throwing him momentarily into a dark vortex. A moment later he landed in a crouch, panting and light-headed, at last shaking free the maliciously enchanted medallion into a pouch on his belt and unsheathing his blade. Turning all about himself he saw that he had somehow been translated through space, the witchlights along the walls of the ramshackle houses ahead and the jagged rock roof far above him proving that he was at least yet in Skullport. He stood in a simple narrow backalley, deserted but for a single rotting rat, the uneven stone ground piled high with stinking rubbish.

Breathing deeply despite the foul smell, Mae'rillar dared a look at his injured arm. It blazed with pain, his blood flowing freely over his skin and pooling into his glove. Hissing half in pain and half in rage, he sheathed his blade and paused a moment to bind the ugly wound. He was just tying the last knot in his bandage and considering the swiftest way back to camp when he heard the ring of steel just out of sight.

In the months to come, Mae'rillar would never understand why he followed those sounds of battle. Perhaps he was already on edge after the strange, disorientating confrontation by the docks and needed a way to vent his rage, or perhaps he just wanted to imagine the look of outrage on Kirthel's face if she were to learn that he did not come scurrying straight back to camp. Either way, he turned the corner of the street and laid amber-eyed sight upon two particularly hulking half-Orc brutes artlessly bringing their identical war-axes to bear against a pair of lightly clad Drow priestesses. It looked like the brutes had taken them by surprise, waylaying some kind of trading cart which lay torn from its wheels nearby. Whatever creatures had been pulling the vehicle were already fled, and the scuffle had caused a group of passing human youths to stop and stare at the far end of the alleyway where it joined with a loud, bustling thoroughfare.

It took Mae'rillar only a few moments to take in what was wrong with this scene. The Orcs were clad in Drow piwafwi cloaks and expensive, matching armour, which meant some Dark Elf faction had sent them on this mission. This in itself was not unusual, but sending a pair of half-Orc slaves against two Drow priestesses was not only insulting – perhaps the intention – but also rather foolhardy. Naturally, Drow trained themselves more thoroughly than they did their slaves.

To add to the confusion of the scene, the priestesses were not adorned in the garb of any House Mae'rillar knew – and he was schooled in the law of all of the noble Houses of Menzoberranzan and Ched Nasad. Nor did they bear the symbols of Lolth, but instead the insignia of a different deity altogether, one whose silver horn and crescent moon they wore around their necks and stamped upon their shields. Both wore bows strapped to their backs, along with a quiver of arrows, after the fashion of the surface world hunters, and their garb was silver-threaded grey cloth and shimmering chainmail. With such attire, their long white hair pulled back into simple, practical tails, they were almost as uniform as the half-Orcs they faced.

Most strikingly of all, Mae'rillar saw that there crouched a rag-clad human boy beneath the upturned cart, cowering away from the fight behind the protective stances of the two priestesses. His large brown eyes were swimming with tears when he saw Mae'rillar step into the alley, meeting the warrior's gaze with a look of fear that was instantly chased away by innocent hope. The Drow male was momentarily at a loss. He had never seen Drow priestesses protect any child like that, and certainly never would have imagined a human boy might be given such favour.

In spite of the pity that welled in his heart unexpectedly to see the hope and the fear warring on that little boy's face, Mae'rillar never had to find out if his capacity for heroism stretched to such a situation, for one of the half-Orcs had seen him and the twin longswords he grasped. In truth, his left arm was all but useless even with its bandage, and it throbbed hotly with unhappily distracting pain, but he hefted his blades in warning, matching the creature's glare as it shoved away the priestess it faced and made for him. He met the half-Orc's clumsy swing with a well-timed dodge, scoring a long cut along his attacker's calf as he span around to face the half-Orc again. The priestess had clearly – and expectedly – weighed her allegiances and her priorities and turned to help her compatriot, barely giving Mae'rillar a second glance. He might have sighed at that, had he not been distracted by the large, armoured half-Orc rushing him with another broad swing of his waraxe.

Again Mae'rillar skipped out of reach, this time drawing a thin line of blood and a wrathful bellow from his foe. Not so porcine or bristle-covered as a full-blooded Orc, the brute was still remarkable ugly with an unhealthy grey tinge to his skin and numerous scars over his deeply lined cheeks, not to mention the two small tusks jutting from his prognathic lower jaw, distorting his mouth. His heavy brows hung over tiny black eyes, and his head looked to be balding and covered in sores. He was definitely a slave to some Drow House somewhere…but which house?

In the end it was the fall of the half-Orc's comrade that provided the split-second distraction Mae'rillar needed to run his enemy through. The Drow warrior was tired, pained and still more than a little confused and disorientated. As the slave fell choking on prodigious bouts of blood, he spared a moment to regret that he had not made a cleaner kill. But a moment was all he had, for in the next he felt the cool sting of a tiny Drow dagger at his throat, and non-too-gentle hands pushing him behind the cart, out of sight of the onlookers who had already begun to disperse with the end of the fight.

"Who are you? Where do you come from?" the priestess with her dagger at his throat demanded, her red eyes narrowed distrustfully, gleaming against her ebon skin in the half-light.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"We have your life in our hands, impudent m-," the priestess began, only to have her outburst quelled by a hard look from the other, calmer female. Mae'rillar made a point of meeting her eyes instead, raising his hands with their palms outwards in a gesture of peace.

"I just saved your lives, against my better judgement," he pointed out, "And the child's."

Hearing himself mentioned, the boy darted out from under the cart and wrapped his arms around the less aggressive of the two priestesses, who placed a protective hand on his shoulder and gave Mae'rillar a distrustful stare.

"You bring up a fair point," she noted, her voice soft and yet somehow still ringing with threat in a way only the Drow language could convey, "Why would you help us? How do I know you were not here to win us over before finishing the expendable slaves' job?"

"You cannot know that," Mae'rillar could not keep the frustration from his tone, and the priestess with her dagger at his throat gave the blade a little push, making him hiss in pain, "But I think I have proven to you that a simple dagger to my neck would not be the end of me – and no matter what you fear...I did just save you and your ward."

Doubt flickered across the calmer priestess's angular face, but she waved her comrade back, stepping out of reach as well with the boy still clinging to her leg.

"You speak truly," she admitted at last, her eyes falling to the two dead half-Orcs for a moment before looking back to Mae'rillar, "You will come with us. Our mistress can decide your fate."

The determination in her eyes showed to Mae'rillar that the struggle to escape would probably be one he could not win, especially not with an injured arm. He would have to hope that he could escape later, or broker his release. Perhaps he would be held to ransom for his House to buy him back…and he truly wondered what Matron Kilath would pay for his return. No matter the outcome, it pleased him that he would definitely be keeping Kirthel waiting all the same.

* * *

_1375 DR, __**Year of Risen Elfkin**__, Alturiak 'The Claw of Winter'_

Mae'rillar had begun to doubt whether or not his 'contact' would appear at all; his wine was drunk and his food all but gone when he heard the creak of the door behind him and the tell-tale scrape of boots over the smooth stone floor. He did not turn to face the newcomer, but saw the momentary look of surprise on the barkeeper's face.

A smile tugged at the corners of Mae'rillar's mouth, threatening to break his pretence of obliviousness. It was fun to play these games with old friends, but it was also a precaution – should those Duergar take it into their heads to follow him out of the inn in the morning, or that Illithid behind him prove to be some kind of spy for the one he sought, a feigned lack of interest might just save his old friend's life. For the purposes of the evening, she was his 'contact', but in truth she was a dear friend of years passed.

"Playing hard to get as always, are we?" the voice that mocked him in the Common Tongue was unmistakably carrying the accent of a noble-born surface-world human, and as Mae'rillar looked up in deliberate nonchalance his view was temporarily obscured by the large backpack that thumped onto the table between them.

"It makes the time pass swifter while I wait for you," the Drow warrior pushed aside the bag as the woman before him sat down with a graceful twist into the chair opposite. He tried not to catch his breath too obviously at the sight of her – not for his own sake, because she knew what effect she had on observers to her beauty, but again for her sake, "You always were late, Sharwyn." A quick glance across the room showed that the Duergar were, by the Maiden, looking _very _interested.

"It ensures I need not pass any time in waiting for _you_," she retaliated, arching a delicate, expressive eyebrow at him as his eyes settled upon her again.

She was dressed for the road, with a practical leather jerkin over finer cloth, and her dark cloak was worn with use. Still, even beneath all that plain attire he knew she hated, she carried herself like a woman who intended to _use _how people stared at her. Woe to those who mistook her, however, for she knew well how to use that longsword on her hip.

"You have come a long distance, I see," Mae'rillar noted softly, nodding to her state of dress, and the woman shrugged, a movement that allowed her long, lustrous brown hair to settle fluidly over her shoulder, catching the light just so. He grinned at her for her lack of subtlety and she had the grace to look a little bashful.

"No further than you, I don't doubt," Sharwyn shrugged again, more naturally this time, pulling free her simple little hand-harp and placing it flat on the table between them, holding his gaze with her own dark eyes as she strummed a simple little tune as if absent-mindedly toying with the instrument. In fact, her action brought Mae'rillar much relief, for he sensed the shimmer of magic in the air around them and knew she had summoned some kind of magical enchantment to distract those in the room with them from their real conversation.

"I assume we may discuss our….mutual summons…frankly now?"

"Of course," she gave him her most honest smile, shapely lips curving and lighting up her lovely eyes. _If only it could have been us, old friend_. She reached across the table then, placing one long-fingered hand upon his gloved one and squeezing gently, "I had a letter from Nathyrra as well, that's why I agreed to meet you here. Do you think it's for real? Has our lady really been attacked so brazenly?"

"It seems unlikely," Mae'rillar admitted, "But I fear at least something of what we have been told is true. Nathyrra would not pull us from our lives now if it were not for a good cause."

"You fear Meph-" Sharwyn paused, catching her words just in time, "That he has found a way to seek vengeance?"

"Possibly," Mae'rillar sighed, pulling his hand free and leaning back in his chair. If it were not for the message Nathyrra had sent, dragging him from northern climes in fear for the lost love of his life, he suspected he would have been gladder to see Sharwyn, "Where the Seer is concerned, you know I have a certain…lack of clarity. We must discover the truth, and soon."

"We should start by finding Nathyrra," Sharwyn nodded, a little too quickly, and when she caught Mae'rillar's expression she stopped and looked away guiltily. The unspoken question between them would have to wait.

"Nathyrra can look after herself…for now," the Drow corrected, perhaps a little too sharply, "We must head for the Promenade of the Dark Maiden and ascertain the truth. I suspect the Seer does not lie on her deathbed there, no matter what we have been told. One thing you must remember about the Underdark is that the layers of truth and lies are always intertwined. No truth is spoken without falsehood, Sharwyn. We must untangle it."

One thing was for certain: his Seer would never have been ambushed unawares by unknown attackers. _But she might have let it happen_, the fear of the truth gnawed at him, _with the right motivations._


	2. A Night in Skullport

**_Year of the Unstrung Harp_**** = Year of Hordes of the Underdark **

**_Year of Risen Elfkin_**** = Four years later**

**I hope you enjoy this installment, and reviews will be as ever much appreciated :)**  
**And for those of you who are familiar with the Forgotten Realms novels, and know the book 'Starless Night', the headband Sharwyn has in this is indeed a nod to Catti-Brie's similar item.**

* * *

_1371 DR, __**Year of the Unstrung Harp**__, Eleasis 'Highsun'_

The two Drow priestesses, still with the little boy matching pace breathlessly between them, had led Mae'rillar only as far as one alleyway, heading for the north-eastern end of Skullport, when they insisted upon blindfolding him. Threatened by two well-armed clerics of a god he did not know, he had hardly been in a position to make demands, especially with the ever-worsening pain in his injured arm. It was hardly an ideal situation, leagues from Menzoberranzan and the relative safety of House Kilath, walking blind through the streets of Skullport with nothing but the vice-like grip of one of his captors to guide him to his unknown destination. Still, he was a Drow warrior, not newly graduated from his time in Menzoberranzan's martial academy, Melee Magthere. He could still fight blind, even if he could not find his way home. His trepidation came from the mystery that awaited him at the end of their journey.

He berated himself for getting caught up in that fight, for being drawn in by a moment of weakness. Amongst it all he might have even begun to forget about the strange encounter at the docks, but for the endless throbbing in his arm and the blood congealing in his glove. He wondered what had become of his soldiers, and if they had run straight back to Kirthel. They could not rightly present themselves without their commander, the medallion they had travelled all that way to procure or the gem bag he still wore on his belt, could they? After the necromancy they had witnessed at Mae'rillar's expense, perhaps they would be willing to take that risk – they probably presumed him dead. Drow allies had a tendency to aim for the more hopeless outcome regarding missing compatriots.

The way his captors led him was convoluted and disorientating; twice he heard the loud rattle of carts on the main thoroughfare of Skullport, but only once was he pulled sharply across, his hood up to hide his blindfold. He listened intently to everything around him; the snorting of some stabled rothé – the livestock native to the Underdark –, the clack and scrape of a carpenter and a butcher working in their neighbouring shops, the whispering wings of the fairies and imps overheard carrying messages for their masters. None of it brought Mae'rillar to a reliable conclusion; it seemed to him that the two priestesses were leading him on an aimless route through town, until he heard the murmur of water by his side and was bundled into a narrow-sided rowing boat. He had not heard the din of the quayside, and he felt the angle of the boat with his arm as it was pushed off from its mooring. North east…what lay north east of Skullport, close enough for two priestesses to fearlessly hold a well-trained Drow warrior captive, along with their human ward?

Mae'rillar was still digging through his memories, thinking through all of the lessons he could recall from his compulsory years in Sorcere, the wizards' academy of Menzoberranzan, when the boat scraped jarringly over dry ground. No one had ever told him what lay north east of Skullport, except for Ched Nasad, the other major Drow city. But surely that was not their destination? It lays leagues away.

Once more he felt his captors drag him to his feet, heard the high, nervous whispering of the boy with them and their reassuring voices. That ambience sent an uncomfortable jolt through him, a pang that he hardly expected: he could not recall a time when ever he had heard a child treated so kindly. He thought of vicious Matron Kilath with her three-headed snake whip, and of his father, the weapon master of the house, with his preference for training with bladed weapons over blunted ones.

Abruptly Mae'rillar's senses were once more assaulted by the noise of busy settlement, an unnerving change after their walk from the boat through utter stillness. _This place must be enchanted and well warded._ That explained why Sorcere had neglected to educate him. He began to wish he had run when he had better chances. He doubted a place like this would _ransom _him. His confusion mounted as they walked more briskly, stepping over smooth, neatly paved ground to the tune of the high laughter of children and the calls of merchants selling their wares. He was pulled to a stop at the beginning of a flight of stairs, feeling the bottom step graze against his booted ankle before he could twist aside. The priestesses conversed briefly, too hushed to hear properly, and then only one hand held his arm as his remaining captor dragged him painfully up the steep stairway.

"What is this?" a male voice demanded in a tone that would have had him scourged for a week in House Kilath, "You have brought a spider-worshipper here? How _dare _you risk our safety?"

"Our Lady said he would save us, and he did. She told me to bring him here, if it was possible. He has not borne witness to the path we took," the priestess tugged sharply at Mae'rillar's blindfold, and the rough treatment sent a jolt of fiery pain through his injured arm. A wave of sickness tightened in his stomach and, to his own surprise, he swayed to his knees, retching.

"She is not my Lady, Zerith," the male sounded disgusted, but seemed to have relented for the priestess was permitted to drag Mae'rillar back to his feet and through a groaning stone doorway, pausing to relieve him of his weapons.

He was only led for a few more paces – just long enough for the doors to slam behind him –, clutching at his arm and still blind to his surroundings, before Zerith released her hold on him, allowing him to slump once more to his knees, groaning. In the cool, still silence that followed Mae'rillar imagined a hundred crossbows trained his way, or perhaps an axe or sword poised over his neck. He did not expect a fingertip to press beneath his chin, tilting his head up as if to meet this stranger's eyes. Unable to see, still he gasped as warm, healing magic spread through his arm, pushing away the feverishness that had crept over him along the walk from the boat, and replacing the burning in his skin with a dull ache more akin to a bruise.

"We are grateful to you for your kindness," a strangely accented voice promised at his ear, as his healer leaned forward, hair brushing against his cheek as she unfastened the blindfold and revealed herself to him.

From her voice alone, Mae'rillar had not expected the one who knelt before him to be a Drow, but Drow she was, with the same combination of ebon skin and pale hair that marked out their shared heritage. Her features were not so sharp as was more common among their kin, however, and she lacked the lines of anger that were to be expected among the aggressive priestesses of his homeland.

She smiled at him as he blinked at her, his eyes adjusting to the dimly lit chamber. Overtaken in waves of confusion and surprise, Mae'rillar flinched away as her hands curved around his arms, expecting some kind of retribution, but she simply helped him to his feet, still smiling, and stepped back away from him onto the large curving stairway that dominated the chamber. For a moment he was dazzled by the strangeness of the place, of her unthreatening – even trusting – stance, but he was a trained warrior and he surveyed his surroundings with a practiced focus.

The hall was large and circular, awash in silvery light which filtered down from a central shaft set in the domed ceiling, the grey stone of which had been decorated with silver outlines of surface-world animals, along with a crescent shape followed by a spray of glittering gems. The young Drow warrior recognised that at least as Selûne and her tears, the moon of the lands above. Contrary to his expectation, the balconies set in the joining of the walls and dome were not peopled by armed aggressors; they were utterly empty, just like the floor upon which he stood. The doorway behind him was barred with iron and made of impressively heavy-looking stone, lined with silver, and it hummed with ominously strong magic. The only other possible exit stood closed as well, and though it looked less intimidating it likely led further into this unknown building.

The priestess was still standing on the last step of the central stairway, swathed in the silvery glow filtering down from the shaft above. The altar behind her was too high to see clearly, but whatever stood within its central dish caught the light and refracted it upwards into a spiral of colourful illumination almost too bright for Mae'rillar's sensitive Drow sight. It did not silhouette his mysterious benefactor as one might have expected; rather, she seemed to glow in that light, and he caught his treacherous breath. When his hands moved automatically for his emptied sword belt and his gaze swept the room once more for enemies, attempting to compensate for his more positive responses, she still did not move.

"You trust us as little as my people trust you," the Drow priestess before him noted softly, and at last his eyes were drawn back to her, "But the priestesses owe you their lives, as does our fosterson."

"Your _fosterson_? The human boy?" Mae'rillar could not avoid his incredulous tone. The idea was…ludicrous to him, "What place is this? And what do you intend to do with me?" But for a moment, she just smiled, and there was no malice in her sapphire eyes, no sinister twist to her shapely lips.

As his posture relaxed a little she stepped back down from her place with one graceful gesture to indicate that she was indeed unarmed, and Mae'rillar beheld that she was tall for their kin – almost as tall as he was. Her hair, falling in lustrous white curls to her hips, was woven with silver threads and shimmered iridescent in the soft light; her smile now was more mischievous than her serene voice had led him to expect. All but against his will, his eyes drifted and he saw that she wore a thin lilac dress, its distractingly wide neckline a little askew, leaving one smooth ebony shoulder bare. No weapons were visible upon her narrow silver belt, nor in her hands. She did not even wear a symbol of her faith; a faith which had lent her the power to heal his wound with a spell full of warmth and peace. From that alone, Mae'rillar knew she was not a follower of Lolth, the goddess to whom his mother and all the people of his home city prayed.

"You need not fear me, warrior. I see the truth, and I see it with hope though there is much to come that must be endured. We are in Lith My'athar, an outpost of Eilistraee not far from the Promenade of the Dark Maiden," she gestured up at the ceiling above them, looking away from him with disarming trust, "Ours is the faith of song and dance beneath the stars," when her eyes met his again they held such _joy_ that Mae'rillar felt his traitorous heart jolt just a little.

"And your intentions with me? You said yourself that I saved your priestesses and the boy. You can see that I know nothing of Lith My'athar or the…Promenade of the Dark Maiden," though in truth the latter destination held some familiarity to Mae'rillar, he preferred not to admit to it, "And I doubt we can offer each other anything more. I thank you for your healing, but I must be gone from this place."

"You truly mean your thanks," the priestess noted softly, her lips quirking and her eyebrow raising in curiosity, "You belong among 'your people' no more than I do."

Unexpectedly she stepped forward, her eyes holding his as her hand brushed against his cheek. Sucking in his breath, Mae'rillar flinched away from her touch but did not pull away entirely, for her eyes still held him and his heart was hammering in his chest.

"You will be returned safe and whole to Skullport," she agreed, dropping her hand to her side once more, half-turning away before a crooked, knowing smile crossed her face and lit up her eyes, "But you will not forget this place."

* * *

_1371 DR, __**Year of the Unstrung Harp**__, Eleasis 'Highsun'_

It was turning into a day and a night of too many unanswered questions. Mae'rillar's thoughts were still spinning as he was led, blindfolded once more, through the quietened streets of Lith My'athar; though the Underdark dwelt ever in darkness, its inhabitants still moved to a regimented system of 'day' and 'night'. He remained blinded along the walk to the boat, and as his captors rowed back across the body of water around Skullport. He felt in no hurry to strike up conversation, and speculation was his sole companion.

The cursed medallion weighed heavily in his thoughts. He had not dared to throw it aside; Matron Kilath had demanded its delivery, after all. Regardless, its treacherous nature, and that of its courier, only strengthened his curiosity. He could not begin to fathom the significance of the unfamiliar necromantic ritual to which he had been subjected, but the teleportation his touch upon the offending blade had caused could hardly have been accidental. It seemed more than a little convenient that it had sent him to the priestesses and boy, especially as they had said that their 'Lady' had known Mae'rillar would help them. Yet…he found it hard to believe that such agonising wizardry was connected to the gentle warmth of the beautiful priestess's healing magic. Instead her words would not leave his thoughts; Eilistraee, Lith My'athar…the trust in her deep blue eyes…

His blindfold was removed as his captors, a pair of heavily armoured male Drow, rowed their boat up to a small, abandoned jetty. Mae'rillar was bundled wordlessly onto the platform and left without ceremony; he did not linger to watch them disappear into the gloom cast by the city's witchlights. Instead the young warrior pulled up his hood, made his way around the deserted warehouse by which he found himself, and slipped into the night-time streets of Skullport. The city was free of its earlier claustrophobic bustle but it was hardly deserted; brothels overflowed with rowdy, drunken debauchery, competing with the numerous taverns for dominance on the gloomy streets. Thieves and thugs darted among the backalleys; Mae'rillar had to employ some significant dexterity, despite his weary limbs, to avoid getting caught up in the beginnings of one particularly violent looking fight. He kept himself focused upon making his way to the section of the docks at which he and his earlier companions had arrived before acquiring the medallion. He sincerely doubted that any would have waited for him, but he also knew that there were a number of rowing boats tied up there, any one of which would most likely only be missed long after he had made his exit.

Mae'rillar's destination was a rickety boathouse, constructed from surface-world wood which had begun to moulder in the damp air of Skullport, well away from the busier streets of the city and sheltered behind a suspiciously unpopular bakery. From the smell emanating out of the kitchen door, it appeared the owners dredged their food from the murky waters around Skullport. Mae'rillar curled his lip at the thought – he doubted even his mother's half-starved Orc slaves would favour such food.

As the Drow slipped unseen into the boathouse, his passing inaudible amongst the creaking of the gently rocking boats within, his sneer quickly turned to a satisfied smile as his eyes adjusted to their favoured infravision, unlit as this boathouse was. He was alone, his quarry utterly unguarded as he had suspected, but nonetheless he worked quickly to unwind the rope mooring the nearest boat and to slip inside the narrow vessel, pushing on the oars with as much force as his need for silence would permit. In truth it was a dangerous position to be a lone Drow on the streets of treacherous Skullport. He did not bear the insignia of his mother's house, but that was perhaps all the more suspicious to any potential enemies of hers – for it hinted at the clandestine motivations behind his quest. His business had been to stay out of sight, and to evade capture at all costs if noticed.

Mae'rillar was familiar with the path he must take through the water, keeping the city close to his right in order to avoid the unforgiving blue illumination of the witchlights which never dulled during the day or night. Once he had rounded the rocky cliff-face ahead, moving out of sight of the city and towards a narrow channel which he knew to be swarming with his mother's soldiers, Mae'rillar was far from breathing a sigh of relief. He may have escaped the dangers of Skullport, but he now moved to meet with his sister Kirthel, the unforgiving leader of this mission for their mother. True, she dare not kill him given his success, but he would have much to explain about his absence, and her superior attitude always filled him with a gut-wrenching need to bury a dagger in her throat. The memory of her free use of her two-headed snake whip made his back burn. When the thought of violence was on his sister's mind, there was nothing one could do to sway her out of it, save for fear of her mother. Breathing deeply, Mae'rillar steeled his rebellious mind, slowing his movement through the water to buy himself a little time, closing his eyes…and seeing a flash of deep blue. _You belong among 'your people' no more than I do._

"You are late, brother," Kirthel's voice cut through the darkness as Mae'rillar's boat slid into the narrow tunnel ahead, shattering the peaceful whisper of water against stone.

"Yet I return with the item our mother requires, sister," he responded sharply before he could stop himself, raising his eyes to see his youngest sister standing upon the lip of the path ahead, a habitual frown deepening upon her thin, angular face. Her hands flexed upon the bone handle of her snake whip, where the enchanted heads of the weapon coiled around her wrist, hissing and tasting the air with flickering tongues.

"The warriors who returned told me of the necromancer's magic," Kirthel's eyes narrowed, glittering a brilliant crimson in the darkness as she nodded behind herself, her braids of white hair twisting about her shoulders with the same sinuousness as the snakes twisting about her arm, "I would hear what you have to say of these events. Were I not to know better, your lateness would seem more than a little suspicious."

"Hurtful words," Mae'rillar raised his eyebrows, unable to hold back the sarcasm in his tone and affected his most unconvincingly innocent expression, watching his sister carefully even as he pulled himself from the boat, the Kilath soldiers lining the tunnel walls parting to let him pass, "But as it happens I have learned much tonight, and my tale is one for our matron's ears first. What would she think of us, discussing such matters behind her back…so to speak?"

Mae'rillar had to conceal his smile when his sister's expression twisted. Her snakes snapped at him, and he was careful to stop at a safe distance. His sister was their mother's least trusted daughter, and they both knew it. She was _expected _to scheme against her mother in Drow society, but her lack of subtlety had always put her in a dangerous position in their house. Even Mae'rillar could whisper a few words to their mother and worsen her standing if she made him speak of his time in Lith My'athar, and she feared that. In truth, her resultant vengeance would probably make such a move on his part more costly than it was worth, but he enjoyed his small moments of success against his sisters. Kirthel just happened to be the easiest target.

"Then you shall tell her presently," Kirthel held out a hand, and Mae'rillar pointedly emptied the medallion on to her palm. He had no intention of touching it again, and looked hopefully for a flinch, or a look of horror, but as her spidery fingers closed around the heavy, cold metal, her thin lips were curved in a triumphant smile.

"We return to Menzoberranzan immediately?" Mae'rillar struggled to conceal his disappointment. He was weary in body and mind. He would have liked to sleep at least a little – and he felt a rush of…something (was it hope?) at the thought that he might well dream of the beautiful priestess of Eilistraee who had given him mercy.

"To Menzoberranzan? No," Kirthel smirked, clearly enjoying his ignorance, "House Kilath has moved on from the petty squabbles of that city. Our mother's intentions are altogether more…ambitious."

* * *

_1375 DR, __**Year of Risen Elfkin**__, Alturiak 'The Claw of Winter'_

The bedroom was small and dark, save for the gentle blue of the witchlights filtering in through the cracked shutters. It was barely enough light for Sharwyn to see by, though she could just about make out the shapes of the two beds, one at each end of the room, and the table between them with its unlit candle. Mae'rillar had brushed past her as she lingered in the doorway waiting for her eyes to adjust, his Drow sight just as suited to the darkness as it had been when first they had met, when he had never seen the sun of the world above.

"Surely you brought the circlet?" Mae'rillar asked softly as he seated himself along the window seat, his eyes glinting with the red of infravision in the gloom, "You will need it when we leave this city…"

"Yes, yes," Sharwyn rolled her eyes as she moved to her bed, pulling off her boots before flopping onto her back with a groan, staring up at the play of faint blue light across the low, sloping ceiling, "Of course I did. Trust me, I know better than you how poorly I see in the dark. It's just…I'd rather not wear it until I absolutely have to."

"Always so vain."

Mae'rillar's laughter was low and genuine, but Sharwyn propped herself up on her elbows in time only to see him looking away from her, through one of the cracks in the shutters. Though she could not see him clearly, she could imagine the swift change in his expression.

"You worry for her; our Lady," Sharwyn noted softly, but he gave no response, "And I do as well. But we can't travel to the Promenade of the Dark Maiden without sleep."

"We will need to pass through the ruins," the Drow warrior told her at last as if she had never spoken, still not looking around, "I do not know another way, and if anything of what Nathyrra said is true then we must make haste. We will not have time to go around – we must pass through Old Lith My'athar."

"You still blame yourself for that, Mae'rillar?" Sharwyn sighed as noisily as she could, all the better to show her frustration, "It's not like you to wallow. You saved her…and you saved me. Don't forget that."

"I do not blame myself for it, no. I have no interest in lessening Matron Kilath's culpability," even after all those years, there was still a palpable sense of bitter satisfaction behind those words of his, "But as for the Seer…I knew her in the days of Old Lith My'athar. I saw her as she was. You knew her as the Seer, as our Lady, and you knew Lith My'athar as it was in_ those_ days, far away from the Promenade."

"Do you regret leaving?" Sharwyn asked, lying back again and staring up at the ceiling.

"No," Mae'rillar's voice was barely audible, just a breath, and when Sharwyn twisted onto her side to look at him staring back at her, he shifted on the window seat, drawing one knee up to his chest, his hand on his sword hilt and his eyes back on the street below, "Get some sleep, Sharwyn." _But be on your guard._

Trusting in her old friend's protective qualities, the bard hummed a sleepy reply and turned over, closing her weary eyes. But she kept her harp by her pillow, and her sword hilt in her hand as she drifted to sleep…

"Sharwyn."

The whisper that woke her was urgent and familiar, the gloved hand that closed around her wrist was gentle as its pressure stayed the swing of the sword she held long enough to give her fogged thoughts the few seconds they needed to catch up with reality. Turning onto her back, the bard saw Mae'rillar leaning over her, and even after the better part of a decade she still felt her heart stutter at the sight of him.

At some point he had opened the shutters, perhaps in an attempt to awaken her more subtly, and now the pale blue light from the streets was streaming in to the little bedroom, casting shadows below his high cheekbones, highlighting the regularity of his ebon-skinned features. There was a perceptive seriousness in his pale hazel eyes as he started to lean back, his thin shirt shifting just enough to show the black links of Drow mail he wore beneath, and Sharwyn watched with curiosity as he raised her plain silver circlet and placed it gently upon her head. Instantly the item's magic worked upon her sight and the shadows in the room dissipated. Seeing her wince, Mae'rillar raised a white eyebrow and stepped back.

"You look beautiful," he promised as Sharwyn sat up, readjusting the heavy circlet in the vain hope of making it look more flattering; when she glared at him he pointed at the window and moved to shoulder his pack, "We need to leave. We were being watched in the dining hall last night and if they mean to follow us, I would meet them on ground of our choosing."


End file.
